


A Great Man

by Loki_Iama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Parenthood, Parentlock, Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loki_Iama/pseuds/Loki_Iama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock returns he has to face his once best friend. The reunion, at first, does not go as planned. Though it is not really a suprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prequel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yuleyearning](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Yuleyearning).



> Just a little Prequel to a Fic I am planning to write. It is dedicated to Yuleyearning!
> 
> The characters of Sherlock Holmes do not belong to me.

**Prequel**

This was certainly not how he had hoped things would turn out to be. It was not suprising. He had guessed that this could be one of the possible scenarios. But that was not a reason to like it at all. In fact, although he had self control, he had healed, he was feeling better, he had to restrain himself from shouting back.

“... idea what the bloody hell...”

Seven weeks ago he had returned to England. To London, actually. Had put an end to it. Not once and for all – things like these would always happen, over and over again. War had been, is, and always will be part of the human nature. With no natural enemies left they had to turn against each other. Maybe that was true justice.  
His cheekbone hurt. He was sure that there would be bruises again, maybe even a wound. Still, he could not help himself but think that this might have been a good sign had it not been for the second blow to his lip. The metallic taste of blood was a welcoming, known one.

“... but that is just not important to you...”

While he was studying John's expression, full of anger, desperation, and hurt, he asked himself if they would ever sort this out again. When his friend had entered the small private room that looked like and reeked of hospital but was actually located in a manor one hour outside of London he had needed the better part of five seconds to readjust to the scenario. He sitting on the side of a small bed at the window looking like nothing had ever happened. For a moment he seemed to just not believe what he was seeing. Had turned, rubbed his eyes. Turned again.  
He had not spoken.  
Had not reacted.  
Not even when John approached him with two, no three long strides and punched him. Twice.

“... Not caring is really easy for you...”

His tongue licked again over his bleeding and swollen lip, tasting the blood. It helped him remain clear. Remain focussed. And calm. Even though his best friend was ranting mere centimetres from his face. Some drips of saliva hit his face. But Sherlock did not care. Right. Not caring. Ice-cold hand clenching his heart. Pounding it hard against his ribs. He could still tell which ones had been broken. A most unwelcome tingling sensation crept its way up his spine, resting at the nape of his neck. His tongue seemed swollen and dry and the edge of his vision started blurring.

“... no news, nothing, not even a fucking apology...”

By now he was used to being shouted at. Used to pain and sometimes torture. His face remained blank except for the faintest expression of regret. It had been two years. Two long years. And all the time, everywhere, from England to the United States, to Canada, and Brazil, to Spain and Egypt and Afghanistan and Iraq and China and Korea and South Africa and Nigeria and France and Russia and United States and Russia and Austria and Italy and-  
-licked his lips. Taste of blood. Sweet and metallic.

“... machine...”

Yes. The numbness. It might have been easier if he had just called John in after he had returned. Feeling this numbness would have been welcomed by him back then. After the dark and the cold. The nothingness that had seemed to swallowed him completely, stinging him with hundreds of sharp shards. Which, at that time, could be taken literally. He still could not run again. Still had not all the control over his body back. Struggled with walking sometimes. Writing. Playing the violin was exhausting and needed more practice. It had hurt. Breathing had hurt.

“... even listening?...”

The atmosphere should have been more fitting. The light was bright and nice, the sun shining outside, a warm room. White and friendly yellow walls. A painting by Van Gogh – the one with the sunflowers – decorating it. It should have been dark. With clouds and maybe a storm raging outside. Something to resemble the fact that he felt, although it was over and he was a free man again, that he had lost. 

“... why even bother...”

Completely shattered. Just like the window. Devastated. A grand desert evolving inside of him. Every reference in his mind that clung to John screamed that he should just say something. Anything. Apologize. Yes, it was unfair but that was life. Tough and unfair and then, one day, death. There were not a lot of pleasant things in life. His grandfather had always told him that if he ever found something important to never let it go.  
Something important. Or someone. And he had smiled and it had reached his eyes. Wrinkles. Oh, all those wrinkles. And the gaze to his grandmother. The smell of freshly baked cake and biscuits-  
-licked his lips. 

He did that a lot in the last few minutes. Had it been minutes? It did not really matter. He gulped, causing his adam's apple to jump up and down. Tried to clear his throat.

“...done.”

And with a last glance, a disappointed glance, John was about to turn and leave. Leave the room and never return. For the first time in his life Sherlock experienced an emotional trauma. His hopes that had somehow started to fuel him along with adrenaline were drained.  
He would be alone.  
Again.

“John”, he whispered, clearing his throat again, startled be the sound of his voice. Lonely and forgotten and defeated. His friend did not turn. But did not resume his way out of the open door, either.

“Have you any idea what the bloody hell this means to me? I saw you jumping, Sherlock, you. Were. Dead. Do you have the slightest idea what that meant to me? What that means? I was devastated because I thought I... but that is just not important to you. All you care about is the game. Yeah. Not caring is really easy for you. In the last two years nothing. And now no news, nothing, not even a fucking apology and I still don't know a single fucking _shit_ about what was going on. You are a machine, Sherlock. Uncaring, emotionless machine. Are you even listening or is that not important enough for Mr. Holmes? God, why even bother giving some sort of reply? My tiny intellect could not compute your great explanation. We are done, Sherlock, done.”

He repeated the whole rant very carefully and neutral. As if reading out a shopping-list. But his lips quivered and his hands had finally moved, holding himself like a child without a parent. And if John would have turned he had seen the hurt plastered over his face, screaming.

“I listened.”  
And with that John just resumed his walk. No. That was not what he wanted. Not what he wanted at all. There was the coldness and the loneliness and gravity itself weight him down. He could not move. Gulped again.

“I am sorry, John. So very, very sorry. Please.”

Time froze. He was certain. Breathing stopped. Maybe even his heart stopped. But John did not. John was the only person, the only organism in the entirety of the universe who was able to move. And when he had turned around Sherlock wished that he hadn't. Even though his friend could see that this had not been easy, that he was hurt as well, that he knew and felt guilty, Sherlock could now see that John would go. Nonetheless. He would go. John was there, within reach, and Sherlock had never been good with other persons. But he understood that John knew. Knew how he must feel. That he was still angry, needed to be angry, and would continue to be angry. Maybe forever. And that was something that hurt both of them.

It was just not fair.

And even though he could have jumped up. Could have started to follow John. Grab him. Stop him. Saying him that he needed him. There. Maybe hug him. And tell him more about how sorry he was that he just wanted to be home again and pretend that nothing had ever changed that he had never been gone that John had never married that he would not be alone again-  
-licked his lip.  
And stayed.

John was entitled to deal with this as he wanted. And he had no right. Nothing. Just ragged breathes. Shivers. A heart monitor that beeped louder and louder, faster. Crushing him. The noise and pounding of his own heart. His mind reeling and screaming. Pressing his hands to his temples he tried to steady his breathing. He felt beaten. And utterly alone.


	2. Back to 221 Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight years after Sherlock had returned John finally finds his way back to 221B Baker Street.

He really did not know how he had ended up there. Not after what had happened the last time. But maybe it had just been enough for now. Although he was quite happy. More or less. More more than less, actually. Of course, the divorce was now through. No more Mrs. Watson. Given the last weeks and months of their relationship that was not necessarily a bad thing. Mary was still a beautiful and kind woman. Someone that had helped him so much with his life once Sherlock had decided to, well, whatever reason-  
he was getting angry again.

The numbers on the door were still the same. 221. A to C, of course, though that was nowhere indicated. They were both standing in front of it, staring. In silence. Him and his daughter, Alex, who would stay with him. Together with a friend, a little boy in her school she befriended because he was clever and was being bullied, she had basically argued how much better it was for her to stay with him. Something he deeply admired about her. All alone she had stood up in front of the judge, had revealed and unfolded a sheet of paper and after asking if she could read it out because she had not learnt it by heart had started.

“I do love both of my parents”, she had started, looked at Mary, himself and then also at Jeff, Mary's new man, “And I like Jeff, Mummy's new friend, but I do not want to go home with them to America. First, Dad can look after me and he also got me a nice Nanny, when Mummy and Dad aren't home. Second, Mum and Jeff earn more money making it easier for them to visit me regularly. Third, it is already two months into school term, which is like a lot time for a girl my age, and I made friends and settled into the new school. I am rooted, figuratively. Whereas in America I would not know anyone which is pretty bad for a girl my age. Because everyone in America in a school will already have socialized without me. So I want to stay here in England. Besides, our educational system is better.”

It smelled like rain. And since the sky was all grey with dark clouds hushing fast over London it might just start soon. It was a bit windy but a few miles over the earth it must be horrible. For a short moment he wondered if Mary's and Jeff's flight would be delayed.  
The door was still painted green. Fresh, actually. It looked nice.  
And it had been such a long time since he had been here. Eight whole years. They had eventually met, again. But never at Baker Street. It had taken him a few months – five or six, before he had contacted Sherlock again. After the press had died down. They had found their peace with each other but their friendship had never felt right again to him.

“Are we going to ring the bell?”  
A bit startled John looked down to his finely dressed daughter. There had been no reason to come here. They had just talked, escaped the final packing and goodbye at home. A home they would soon have to leave. It was too big for two people, anyway. Definitely too expensive. Of course he had talked with Alex about his friend. About Sherlock Holmes. She had asked him one day about the detective friend of his and why he never talked nor visit him any more. And now they were standing on the threshold. Well. They could ring the bell. There was nothing wrong with visiting. Right. They could visit-  
Mrs. Hudson. Very well.

Just as Alex opened her mouth again, looking up at him in her perfect adorable dress, he lifted his hand and pressed the bell. For 221A. After all, they were not here to see Sherlock, were they? It seemed a bit bold to just appear right here and now. 

Just a moment later the door was opened but it was not Mrs. Hudson's familiar friendly face appearing in the open door. He did not know her. She was pretty, he gave her that, with her long brown hair framing her kind-looking face. At least the minute the frown disappear from her face. Not when she saw him – when she saw Alex. She was actually a bit higher than he was, though definitely only in her twenties. To be honest it was not difficult to be taller than he was. 

“There is no play date scheduled for today and it is bad timing”, she started the conversation, looking more at Alex than him. His daughter's mouth was formed to a surprised 'O' so she seemed as puzzled as he was. Then he heard crying coming from upstairs and the young woman looked up over her shoulder.  
“I am about to flip a table and consider persuading my employer to get to a surgery so no surprise play dates today. I am sorry. I know today is a bad day for you, Alex, but here is also a bad day-”  
The crying muffled down which seemed to alarm her even more.  
“We are not here for a play date”, Alex chirped in before John, having opened his mouth several times now, frowning, not able to say anything.  
“Stop, stop, stop”, he demanded, causing both of them to look at him. The only thing unchanged was the constant crying from upstairs. What was happening up there?

“Who are you, how do you two know each other, and why are you here?”, he asked, loud and clear, as authoritarian as he had been as a captain.  
“School”, Alex answered promptly, pleased with herself for doing so.  
“I am Alice”, the young woman responded and then it dawned on him that Alice was the name of the Nanny of Alex's best friend. For a moment the dots refused to connect until none other than Sherlock Holmes appeared at the top of the staircase with a crying young boy in his arms, carrying him. Blood was trailing down his face, out of his nose, mixed with snot and tears by now. Sherlock was still holding a kitchen towel, stained with blood, and tried to clean him up and stop the nosebleed.  
“Hello Ben!”, Alex cheered and the dots finally connected although John could still not quite believe it. His daughter already pushed the door open wide to squeeze herself between it and this Alice into the house and run up to her friend. Her friend Ben. Who was this little prodigy in her class.

Just a moment. After a moment he probably would get all of this. Still, he turned around for a moment, looked up and down Baker Street wondering what he had missed. People were hurrying along, a lady staring at him probably wondering what the fuck he was doing. Not only missed, not observed, as Sherlock would put it. Again anger boiled up in him. Fine friend Sherlock was.  
“If you do not mind, John, the bleeding won't stop.”  
Even now Sherlock's voice was completely calm and normal. The same deep voice that he had used the past few years when they had occasionally met. The same voice that had repeated back his own words after he had had the audacity of not remaining dead as every other decent human. The same voice that he had missed those two years before.

With an exasperated sigh he turned around, ignoring Nanny Alice for the moment and just focussing on his friend with a child in his arms. Blood all over. Crying and sniffing and by now grabbing the hand Alex was eagerly offering. Alex who was practically clinging to his leg. Fine. Fuck this, really. Shaking his head he opened the door with quite too much force, causing it to bump into the wall with a loud thumb. Alice groaned, obviously done with all of this and John really could sympathise with her. If that was really Sherlock's nanny she must be rather tough. He knew the antics of his former flatmate all too well. Swiftly, John climbed the stairs until he reached them, now making for some crowded space.

“Not a bleeder?”, he asked, looking at the nose which was obviously bruised. Suspiciously, he first looked at Sherlock, then down at the nanny. Although Sherlock furrowed his brow he did not comment on the glance and rather shook his head.  
“Let me clean him up and make sure that nothing's broken”, he sighed, ushering everyone upstairs in the flat.

The apartment looked surprisingly changed. In a good way. In a non-Sherlock way. Which made this whole day even stranger. There was still the chemistry set on the kitchen table, sure enough, but even though he could tell that it was in use it- well, it did not seem as careless. There were still books lying around in the flat, piled in front of the windows, but now there were also fiction books. New books. Books that would obviously clutter Sherlock's mind palace. Food on the counter. Like bread, and a box with onions and potatoes. What had happened here?

While he was still looking around Sherlock carried Ben over to the dining table in the living room to sit him on top. A first aid kit was already waiting, had already been used. Again shaking his head he moved over and started to work.  
“What happened?”, he asked, not caring if Sherlock would explain the nose or the flat first. Everything here. The young boy in front of him, maybe. Of course he realized the familiarity in the features but it was still hard to believe that married-to-my-work Sherlock actually committed adultery.

The nose was definitely bruised, al right, but the small young boy with the same black but obviously cut hair – not as unruly and flopping around like Sherlock's mop, honestly, - was trying to hold still very well. Just sniffing and flinching slightly.  
“Benedict Alexander Nathaniel Holmes thought that a five minute delay due to traffic would completely justify taking off alone after school”, Sherlock started calmly. Honestly, though, the full name and that story and he did not need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that little Ben was in deep shit.  
“Worrying Alice who was not able to find him and thus contacted the homeless network, my brother, the police, and myself. However, before anyone could catch up with him he had crossed paths with a trio of young gentlemen from school. Since he was alone they figured he was unprotected and proceeded to pursue him. With success.”

“That was not my fault”, the young boy tried to explain but sounded utterly ridiculous because of his damaged nose, “I needed to be somewhere.”  
“Wherever you needed to be: the taken action obviously did not lead to any accomplishment apart from getting you into trouble...”  
“... it is important”, the boy stressed, blatantly interrupting Sherlock, “I had a club.”  
“No you did not.”  
“Yes I did.”  
“No.”  
“Yes he had. Secret club”, Alice chirped in, coming over with new clean towels and some water to help cleaning up the bloody mess. John was grateful for the help seeing that little Ben was obviously agitated. More about the topic of his secret club than his nose which John was simply pinching now, motioning Ben to remain upright and slightly bend forward. 

“So he is yours?”, he asked, although he felt a bit stupid asking it. Just to make a point John took another look around, took in all the changes in the flat. Sherlock seemingly out of ideas how to answer just returned his look for a moment before Alice cleared her throat.  
“Yeah, right, awkward. How about I do the pinching of the nose and everything. And you two can do whatever it is you are doing”, she interrupted, gently ushering Alex towards the staircase and taking over caring for Ben whose bleeding had almost completely stopped. It only took a moment before all three of them had shuffled out of the room and down. Down where, though?

Sherlock, seemingly staring to the staircase as well, regained his composure and waked past him towards the kitchen. John's mouth opened, sighing and shrugging, complaining like this about being seemingly ignored. His old more less than more friend, by now, frankly, just went and filled the kettle with fresh water. So Sherlock was apparently able to make tea after all, the annoying dick. His skilled fingers danced over a box with different compartments with lose tea, carefully choosing one before preparing two infusers.

“Yes. To both questions”, Sherlock eventually answered as he got out two mugs, the porcelain gently bumping against each other with a soft ping. For a moment John looked at his friend, frowned, looked away in thought. Which fucking second question, excuse me?  
“You two can live here until you find something else. There is enough room. You can either camp in the playroom – we have a sleeping couch there in case we have someone over for the night – or the guest bedroom. Though then Alex and Ben would have to share. Or we share. Your old bedroom is the guest room now. Alice and Ben are mostly downstairs in 221C.”  
He had not even asked if Alex and he could stay here but it was not difficult for him to follow Sherlock's reasoning. Maybe he had come here because he had not known where else to go. Or because that was what friends did – go to each other for support. Care. 

He hesitated, aware why Sherlock had done what he had done. Still, it had not been the best course of action. Even Sherlock must know that. They had a rough time sorting things out between them. Shaking his head he went over to the kitchen seeing as the kettle was almost finished.  
“So you have a son. How did that happen? Who is the mother?”, he asked, curious, remembering the iconic scene of Sherlock and him in Angelo's, when Sherlock had obviously stated that he was not interested in things like these. Sherlock stopped, too, now, and distracted himself with pouring hot water.

“IVF. His mother was Samantha Lovelace, a programmer and mathematician in the United States. As you are aware my brother helped me when I was- away. Before he- gave me the first information and equipment I needed he advised me to leave some DNA. In case something happened to me which would leave me infertile and the desire to have a child ever arose. Obviously, my sperm was stored and a slip in the system made it available for donation. Before my brother realised what had happened, or before he wanted to intervene, I was a biological father. Samantha Lovelace died in a car accident when Ben was two. He does not really remember her.”

Licking his lips he watched his friend concentrating on preparing the tea while giving that speech. Sherlock only turned to him at the last sentence since the tea still needed to steep a bit before the milk could be added and the tea leaves removes. They were not in Asia after all where leaves were floating around freely in hot water. John leaned against the counter trying to wrap his head around the fact that his friend, Sherlock Holmes, had been a father all these years.

“Why didn't you tell me?”  
Ah, yes, the most important question he could think of right now. He had talked about Alex now and again. He had said that he was a father now. Sherlock, on the other hand, had said nothing of the sort. As if his son had been some kind of secret. His friend sighed, eyes darting down and to the side turning away to check on the tea.  
“People normally do not associate me with caring or anything of the sort. I did not imagine a good reaction to the revelation that I am a father. Hardly anyone knows and you have been- distant.”  
“Now it is my fault?”, John asked immediately, voice rising before he could stop himself.  
“I am sorry”, Sherlock interrupted him sharply, then took a deep breath. The last years whenever the topic had arisen Sherlock had been quick to apologize. The only thing he had ever apologized for, actually.  
John sighed. Very well. They had not been that close after what had happened anyway. Sometimes friends drifted apart and someone faking their suicide was obviously a big enough reason to drift apart. Given what had been in the papers about Sherlock, what he himself had said to the detective before he had taken the jump, was enough to make his assumptions valid. Sherlock was sometimes a true idiot.

“Good, then. How much space is there in Ben's bedroom?”  
Although he asked he could not quite believe that he was actually doing this without a second thought. Sherlock Holmes invited him and without a doubt that this could turn out to screw up his entire life he agreed. One thing he had learned: Sherlock Holmes would never let him down. Even though he could be a complete dick while doing it. His friend removed the tea infusers from their cups, added some milk and offered one to John. Better spirits than before, then.

“Approximately, your old bedroom.”  
“That is too small for two kids”, John concluded as he accepted the cup. Sherlock, although he took a deep breath just looked away and then shrugged. Whatever he had wanted to say he had filed it away. Maybe in a new cabinet labelled not-a-fucking-bit-good. If not, Sherlock probably needed to start this. A cabinet like this. In his mind palace.  
Yeah, maybe he should blog about it.  
Maybe he should shove his still angry inner voice back into the room it shared with his trust issues. 

“So Alex can have my old bedroom and we can share.”  
He knew that there would be enough moments during which Sherlock would drive him up the wall. Moments when he would regret this decision and would go out to get some air. Moments he would feel like punching Sherlock in the face for being the biggest idiot that ever walked the earth.  
“People will talk”, Sherlock said with a faint smile. Yes, there would be moments he would definitely diagnose himself as completely nuts for this.  
“They do little else”, he grinned, feeling pleased with himself again.  
“Fine. If you bring your gun you are welcome.”


End file.
